


Baptized by Desire

by matchstick_dolly



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, BAMF Chloe Decker, Bisexuality, Brave Chloe Decker, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Related, Episode: s02e16 God Johnson, F/M, Humor, Hurt Lucifer, Hurt/Comfort, Lucifer Feels, M/M, One Shot, POV Original Character, Post-Episode: s02e16 God Johnson, Season/Series 02, Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2020-04-07 03:35:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19076665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/matchstick_dolly/pseuds/matchstick_dolly
Summary: Following Nurse Kipsey's arrest in "God Johnson," Lucifer becomes a more permanent fixture of Westridge Canyon Psychiatric Hospital as he tries to determine just how human he really is.The hospital's oddball janitor thinks he's seen it all, but the Devil has a way of sneaking up on unsuspecting souls.





	Baptized by Desire

**Author's Note:**

> There is humor and comfort in this fic, but there's darkness, too. **Please mind the tags.**
> 
> For Filii Hircus' Lucifer Does Humanity prompt: "Write a fic that includes Lucifer convincing himself that he really is human after/during the time he was drugged with haloperidol in the God Johnson episode."

Bill Puckett had seen a lot of strange things in his time. In fact, there wasn't much he believed he _hadn't_ seen. Having been born at the tail end of the suffocatingly stressful Cuban Missile Crisis, perhaps it was his destiny to stumble upon the world's oddities. All that cortisol had done something to him in the womb, made him some walking target for the unexplainable. He would have preferred a better superpower, but, well, you play the hand you're dealt.

It all started when he was seventeen and making out with his first steady girlfriend beneath the stars, in the back of his granddaddy's rusted pickup truck. Pam Wallace had her tongue in his mouth, but for some reason he opened his eyes, taking himself out of the moment. As he glanced up at the heavens, he thought he saw a saucer-shaped UFO hovering in the sky. Thought he saw it wink, zip away, and disappear. Maybe he did, maybe he didn't. New love does funny things to the eyes. So does dope.

There'd been several ghostly encounters over the years—most benign, a couple disturbing, and that one with the creepy child that made him break a lease, even though doing so forced him to live out of his car for a month. Bill burned sage every week now, just as a precaution. Figured it couldn't hurt.

And last year, when he held his mother's hand when she died from lung cancer, he thought he felt her spirit hovering above him, lingering as she said goodbye. It gave him hope he might see her again. Also made him worry about where he was headed. So, he started going to church—at least, once he found one with evening services. How else were Sundays going to be a day of rest?

All in all, time and experience had taught Bill to expect the unexpected and to accept that there were some things you damn well would never understand about yourself or others or the universe you lived in.

This made him an excellent fit for Westridge Canyon Psychiatric Hospital, where he worked as a janitor, all-around handyman, and occasional stand-in orderly for twelve bucks an hour. It was laborious work, and mostly thankless, but not entirely unpleasant in a mind-emptying sort of way. Tolerating the patients, disturbed as they sometimes were, was easier than reading from a telemarketing script or scanning products at a register. After all, Bill could sympathize with some of them, having experienced the unexplainable himself. The biggest difference between him and the patients here was functionality, how well he convinced others he was okay when his world was falling apart.

Patients talked to the voices in their heads, and Bill merely shrugged. Who was to say, really, that they weren't tuned into a perfectly real channel he and others simply weren't subscribed to yet? They told him to fuck off, and he smiled. They were just saying what everyone sometimes felt like saying. They claimed to be the president—of Greenpeace, of Apple, of the United States—and Bill said, "Pleased to meet you." Truth be told, he'd rather some of the "crazy" people here have the nuclear football instead of the idiots in Washington.

Bill's outlook on life made it hard to sympathize with the doctors and nurses who were shocked when Nurse Kipsey—Patricia Hightower—brought murder into the psychiatric hospital. The patients were prone to hurting themselves, not others. The doctors and nurses knew that, in an academic, statistical sense, but they didn't _feel_ it like Bill did. The people like Kipsey, who acted like they believed they were perfectly sane, that everything they ever heard or saw was objectively true? Those folks were the ones you had to watch real close.

There was nothing wrong with admitting the world didn't make a lick of sense or that its strangeness sometimes got to you. So, when the sharply-dressed LAPD man who called himself the Devil decided to stay a little longer after the investigation was over, Bill thought nothing of it.

He didn't know Lucifer Morningstar was another one of the world's oddities.

* * *

***

* * *

"Ah, Mr. Caretaker, sir!" A hand clapped down onto Bill's shoulder. "So glad I caught you."

Bill turned and looked into Mr. Morningstar's sincere and open face. It was his first encounter with the man, but he'd seen him around. Standing a head or so taller than most in the hospital, he was kind of impossible to miss. Not that Mr. Morningstar looked as he had when he'd first arrived. He was a far cry from his formerly suited self, diminished by baggy sweats and a loose-fitting t-shirt. The barely-there beard and coiffed hair were still perfect, though.

"Uh, yeah?" Bill said.

"Can I trouble you for a spare body towel? I respect I'm not staying at The Four Seasons, but, really, a single towel just won't do."

"Oh. Uh, yeah, I'd give you one, but there's an allotment, and—"

"Right, right, I'm sure. But this"—Mr. Morningstar circled a hand in front of his face—"doesn't happen by chance, and they already have me down to a disposable razor, used once a day, under supervision, _so_. You see my problem."

Bill didn't, but he nodded. Nodding was a good way to de-escalate any situation in this place, or outside of it, and he could tell appearance was very important to this man. "Would a hand towel work?"

"The hand towels here are small enough to be wash cloths!"

"That's all I can give you."

Mr. Morningstar scoffed. "Very well. I suppose I'll make do." With a deep sigh, he added, "I thank you—Bill, is it?" He bent his head, looking at Bill's name tag. A grin suddenly lit up his face. It was so infectious that Bill couldn't help but smile back. "Does that say your family name is _Puckett_? Ooh, Billy, you must have gotten a _pucking_ earful, growing up."

Bill snorted and shoved a hand towel into the Brit's hands. It was the first and last day Mr. Morningstar requested this small amenity.

* * *

***

* * *

"Military man?"

Bill startled, dropping the mattress edge. He hadn't heard Mr. Morningstar return to his room. "Huh?"

"Were you a military man?" Mr. Morningstar nodded his scruffy chin toward the bed. "I always notice a lovely hospital corner." His eyes roamed Bill up and down. "What uniform did you wear?"

"Oh." Bill looked back at the sheets, his heart racing for reasons he didn't entirely wish to analyze. "I didn't serve, but my father was in Vietnam."

"He taught you well, then."

"More like I had to learn it or get the belt," Bill said, and then felt awkward for opening up to a stranger. Why _was_ this man so easy to talk to?

"Ah. We've overbearing fathers in common, then," Mr. Morningstar sighed. "Thought mine was in here just the other week. I should've known something was wrong when we started getting along. Turns out that wasn't him as he is today or even during my fall, only a backup of his holiness in an old heaven-forged belt buckle."

"Okay," Bill said, fluffing the single bed's lone pillow.

Mr. Morningstar unleashed a loud huff. "Actually, no, that probably isn't true, is it? Probably just another bloody delusion." Bill turned in time to see the man fidget with the zipper on his hoodie. "I think I'm the Devil. They tell me I'm not. Can't be." He rubbed at his brow and glanced to his right, into the mirror above the bedroom's sink. "I thought I could prove to myself that I was... But my other face... I can't seem to find it. If it was ever there."

Bill smiled at Mr. Morningstar. "Nothing wrong with the one you've got now."

The other man grinned slightly and rubbed at the thickening scruff along his jaw. "Well, well. Quite the flirt, aren't you?"

"Have a good one, Mr. Morningstar," Bill said, rushing to leave.

"Call me Lucifer!" the man sing-songed as he hightailed it down the hallway.

* * *

***

* * *

Bill cleaned out the staff fridge on the last day of the month. He should have done it at least twice a month, but he just couldn't bring himself to. It was a disgusting task filled with half-eaten yoghurts, moldy sandwiches, and the kombucha tea Nurse Frieda brought in and swore by, but never actually drank.

While Bill sat up on his knees, wiping fridge shelves with disinfectant wipes, a few feet away Nurse Alexandra poured coffee into her chipped _Every Day Is a New Day_ coffee mug.

"How's Lucifer doing?" she asked the doctor standing beside her.

This was a question Bill heard asked, in some form, multiple times a day. Mr. Morningstar had only been at Westridge Canyon for two weeks, but everyone knew him, everyone liked him, and everyone who had the wherewithal to do so talked about him when he wasn't around. He had Ted Bundy levels of charisma.

Dr. Bishop let out a loud sigh. "Well, I think he's finally stopped making fun of my name," she chuckled, "so...progress?"

"What's wrong with your name?"

" _Bishop_? Clergy. All that."

"Oh, yeah," Nurse Alexandra laughed. "I guess you can't say he's not as irreverent as you might expect the Devil to be."

"He just calls me Doctor Hannah now." Bishop shrugged. "He's crabby, but he's started responding to the citalopram, I think—says he's surprised he feels 'more human.' And we've got him on alprazolam at night; he complained of restlessness and anxiety. I don't know how long we can keep him on it, though. The man's tolerance is through the roof. We're giving him enough to tranquilize an elephant."

"He did admit to having substance abuse problems..."

Bill glanced up when the health administrator, Dr. Garrity, breezed into the room. Grabbing a creamer cup from the counter, he stopped and gave the two women what passed for a stern look on his kind, round face. "These discussions are best had in your offices or not at all."

Alexandra and Bishop murmured their agreements and apologies, and Bill could sense their eyes on his back. In a psychiatric hospital like this, where treatment plans were group efforts, nurses and doctors often needed to talk openly about patients to one another, but treatment details weren't something lowly janitors were meant to hear. In fact, it was a huge HIPAA violation.

They probably thought Bill didn't know what HIPAA was. But he did know, just as he knew that at least half of the time the doctors here didn't know why the pills they prescribed worked, or didn't work at all.

Not for the first time, Bill wondered why it mattered if people saw the world differently, if they weren't hurting themselves or anybody else. God knew he'd seen things. Didn't mean he was crazy. Mr. Morningstar wanted help, that much was clear, but was this the kind of help he needed?

Bill chuckled at himself. What did he know? He was just a janitor.

When his shift was over, he drove to his church, even though it was a Tuesday and out of his way. He lit a candle and said a prayer for the winsome man who believed he was Satan. Bill wasn't sure there was a God, or if He listened, but it was like burning the sage: It couldn't hurt.

* * *

***

* * *

Mr. Morningstar had dedicated visitors, and all of them had a different opinion about who he was and should be.

Bill tried not to eavesdrop. He really did. At first. But he always seemed to be in the rec room when Mr. Morningstar was with his visitors. It was just a coincidence. Maybe less of a coincidence that there was dusting to be done near their table every single time, but, oh, he couldn't help himself. Because with every visit from every visitor, Mr. Morningstar became stranger and stranger, and it was Bill opening his eyes while Pam Wallace sucked his face all over again.

It took Bill a week, but he eventually matched names to faces.

There was the short, dark-haired woman named Ella, who came for no other reason than to see her friend and play board games. In many ways, she seemed like the only normal friend Mr. Morningstar had. Mostly, she let him be who he needed to be. No small thing, what with the man's mood swings. Some days he was nice. Some days he was not.

Bill watched as Mr. Morningstar tensed under one of Ella's departing hugs. "I think you're being really brave," she told him. "I mean, I've got dark stuff going on in my head all the time, and I'm not sure I could—"

"It can't be too dark in that head of yours, Miss Lopez."

"You'd be surprised, dude. It's not all sunshine and unicorns." She squeezed his shoulder. "Scrabble tomorrow?"

"That would be lovely, but don't expect to win!"

There was also the middle-aged woman, a Dr. Linda Martin, who once served as Mr. Morningstar's therapist in the world outside. She spoke to him softly and cautiously and...nervously, one eye on the nurses and orderlies at all times. And no wonder. She played Devil's advocate more than any therapist Bill had ever been around. What kind of therapy leaned _into_ a patient's delusions?

"Would it be so bad to be the Devil, Lucifer?"

Mr. Morningstar blinked at her. "It's not a matter of good or bad, Doctor. I'm _human_. I must be. Whatever's happened to me, whatever I think I've experienced or done as _the Devil_ ," he said, using air quotes, "those are simply delusions."

"Uh-huh. I know you believe you've been thinking in, uh, well"—she huffs—" _metaphors_ , but what if—"

"Have you a pen?" Mr. Morningstar interrupted.

Linda stopped short. "Um, I think so?" She dug in her purse for a moment before lifting a black ballpoint. "Why?"

He snatched the pen from her hand. "Look, I'll prove to you I'm human," he said.

And stabbed his hand. Hard.

When he pulled the pen free, blood welled in a bright red gush. "See!" he shouted triumphantly, waving blood around. "Utterly mortal!"

"Oh my God," Linda yelped. "Nurse!"

"Christ," Bill breathed, dropping his dusting cloth to rush forward with paper towels.

A brown-skinned femme fatale sauntered in later that day, took one look at Mr. Morningstar's bandaged hand, and called him pathetic. "What's wrong with you?" she asked, and not in a kind way.

"I'm delusional, Mazikeen."

"No shit. You're the Devil. Not a human."

Bill dusted frantically, while wondering if he should alert doctors. But one look at the woman named Mazikeen, who, for some reason, was looking right at him, and he decided against it. She made his ex-wife look like a kitten.

"I _am_ human, Maze, and if you can't support me in getting better, I'm not sure I need you in my life right now."

Mazikeen's face scrunched up in disgust. "You sound like Linda."

"Actually, _you_ sound like Linda," Mr. Morningstar said. "She's trying to convince me I'm the Devil, too, though she has a bit more tact, really."

"I could fuck this out of you."

He leaned back in his chair, shocked. "I _beg_ your pardon?"

"Oh, come on. In your dumb effort to wipe out or explain away eons of history, I _know_ you haven't forgotten what I can do with a strap-on." She leaned over the table, crawling her hands forward. Cleavage spilled out from barely-there leather. "You've been a dirty, filthy sinner, haven't you? Do you wanna _confess_ to Mistress?"

It was the hottest thing Bill had ever seen in his life.

"I believe I want you to leave now," Mr. Morningstar said, flustered. "This is supposed to be a safe space. I do not feel safe."

Mazikeen dropped back in her chair. "Whatever." She looked him up and down and shook her head. "I'm not into this roleplay."

The strangest visitors were the two people who claimed to be Mr. Morningstar's relatives. There was the tall, blond white lady, a lawyer named Charlotte Richards, who said she was his mother, despite only looking a few years older than him and sharing no resemblance. She brought with her a tall, dark-skinned man named Amenadiel, who claimed to be Mr. Morningstar's brother. Both the woman and the man spoke with American accents. Adoption was a possibility, but that seemed too neat of an answer.

Mr. Morningstar didn't trust his "mother" or "brother" at all.

"You're trying to _deceive_ me," he accused. "What's your angle, hmm? Trying to rob me, kidnap me, get me to take the fall for some crime you've committed?"

"The Fall, yes!" the woman said, latching onto his words. "Don't you remember how your father rejected you? How _angry_ that made you?"

"Of course it makes me bloody angry that Dad kicked me out of the house. Doesn't means I'm a son of God, though, now, does it?" Mr. Morningstar groused. "Doesn't mean you're God's _wife _."__

"Ex-wife."

"Luci, you have to remember who you are," Amenadiel said.

" _These aren't memories_ ," Mr. Morningstar argued. "The doctors are right. The detective is right. I've made this whole persona up. I'm _sick_." He held up his bandaged hand. "I bleed like any other man."

"You bled?" His alleged mother paled and grabbed his hand. "Chloe was near, right?"

"No, she couldn't visit yesterday. She told me she'd come today—in a few hours, actually." Mr. Morningstar smiled.

Charlotte's grasp tightened. "I _need_ you to stop playing this ludicrous little game, Lucifer."

"Ow," Mr. Morningstar gasped, trying to pull his hand away. But she held on firmly. "You're hurting me, Mum. Stop, please."

"Mom," Amenadiel cautioned, a hand on Charlotte's shoulder, "time to go. We'll try another day."

She dropped Mr. Morningstar's hand and cut her eyes over at Amenadiel. "I do not have the luxury of time, son."

"We'll figure something out."

The two stood. Before turning, the woman leaned over Mr. Morningstar. "You're the Devil, yes, but you're also the _Lightbringer_. And your mother needs you. Time to get over it and _grow up_."

Mr. Morningstar stared at the table long after they were gone. He didn't move for hours, hardly seemed to breathe. Bill would leave to clean a bed, tighten a screw or pipe, spray WD-40, only to return and see Mr. Morningstar hadn't moved at all. The nurses offered to help him to his room, a doctor spoke to him (whether he listened, who could say), but still he sat, still he stared.

He didn't move until his last visitor of the day arrived.

"Lucifer?" She spoke gently, like Ella, but her affection was different. Like she saw him as a wounded sparrow in her hands.

The spell was broken as Mr. Morningstar sat up straighter and smiled brilliantly. "Detective, I'm so glad you came."

She made to take his hand, but hesitated, looking for permission. He flipped his hand atop the table, opening his bandaged palm. She stared at the medical tape, but didn't ask questions as she gingerly rested her fingers across the dressing.

"How are you feeling?" she asked.

"Much better now." He hadn't stopped smiling.

Bill knew that look. The man was a total goner when it came to this woman.

The detective looked around the room, her eyes sad and pitying as she took in the patients of Westridge Canyon. "Are you happy here?"

"No," Mr. Morningstar scoffed. "But then I'm told pain often precedes healing."

She nodded. "Lucifer... I don't want to sound like this is all about me, because I know it's not, but you're doing this because _you_ want to, right?" Her forehead creased as she frowned. "This isn't because you think I couldn't accept whatever the truth is, right?"

"Of course not," he said, his thumb sweeping her knuckles. "I just have to find a way past the metaphors."

"Okay," she said, but her eyes were troubled. "Just... Please know, whatever you might need to tell me, I'd listen."

"I know, Detective."

Before she left, she stood beside his chair and reached for him. He melted into her, his head resting between her breasts.

"No _Hot Tub High School_ jokes?" she whispered, combing curly hair with her fingers.

Bill _knew_ he'd seen her somewhere.

"Mm, sorry," Mr. Morningstar sighed. "The antidepressant makes me a little tired, love."

She nodded, the tears in her eyes catching the light. "It's okay."

* * *

***

* * *

The double doors to the group therapy room flew open so hard and wide that their hinges rattled. Bill moved out of the way just in time to avoid Mr. Morningstar's ground-eating march.

A therapist, portly Dr. Weston, jogged after the man on much shorter legs. "Lucifer, why don't you come back in?" Dr. Weston encouraged, his hands smoothing his plaid sweater vest. "We were making great progress."

" _Were_ we?" Mr. Morningstar spat, turning on laceless sneakers. He stalked closer to Weston. "How _dare_ you presume to know the Hell I see in my sleep?" His eyes were wide and dark, unblinking; his lips, pressed into a firm line. The beard on his face made him look like some angry, Grecian god. Or maybe a little more...biblical than that.

It was a terrifying, piss-your-pants kind of look, and Bill almost dropped the bag of trash he was holding.

Dr. Weston raised his hands in a calming gesture. "I don't understand. You're right. But I want to. I want to know what's behind those nightmares."

"And what if they _aren't_ nightmares?" Mr. Morningstar asked, his voice breaking.

"They may _feel_ real, Lucifer, but they're not. Even if there's something after this life, no one's ever died and come back to tell the tale."

"But I feel like _I_ have, doctor."

"I know."

"My father hated me. It _feels_ like he sent me to Hell."

"It's not right what happened to you. Parents should love their children. Like you say your detective friend loves her daughter."

"I didn't mean to be so bad," Mr. Morningstar said, anger leaving him like a gust of wind. "I-I loved my dad," he admitted in a whisper. "How could he cast me out forever?"

When he began to cry, Bill averted his gaze and scurried from the hall.

* * *

***

* * *

Bill squeezed excess water into the bucket before slapping the frilly mop head onto the linoleum. He had a fondness for all repetitive tasks involving the floor. Sweeping, vacuuming, mopping, he could let muscle memory guide his movement, which allowed his thoughts to wander to nicer times, both real and imagined. His baby girl asleep in his arms, wind kissing his face as he rode his bicycle down a steep hill, the sloping beauty of the Eiffel Tower beneath a crescent moon. The real world could get you down, but the mind was a playground filled with whatever you wanted.

Not that everyone's playgrounds worked the same. There'd be no need for places like Westridge Canyon if they did.

He was reminded of this truth as he passed Room 126. The sound of faint moaning pulled Bill from his memories and fantasies. He frowned. Mr. Morningstar had struggled since the rough group therapy session. He'd refused visitors, eaten little, needed additional medication. Assuming Mr. Morningstar was having nightmares again, Bill peeked into his room.

The man who sometimes believed he was the Devil was sat up in bed, his arms held out before him. Tears ran down his cheeks, and, almost as freely, crimson blood flowed from deep, self-inflicted wounds.

"Shit," Bill muttered. "Help!" he shouted on the next breath. "Help! Lucifer's hurt! Room 126! Help!"

He fumbled with the key ring loop at his belt until he found the right room number. Jamming the key inside and turning it, he shoved his way into the room. The mirror above the sink was shattered. A sharp triangle of the glass lay at Mr. Morningstar's bare feet, painted red with blood.

"Hello, Billy." Mr. Morningstar turned dull, glassy eyes toward him.

Bill gathered sheets and wrapped the other man's arms as tightly as he could. Mr. Morningstar gave no resistance, merely watched as Bill worked.

"Not immortal anymore, am I?" Mr. Morningstar chuckled. "Unless...is the Detective here? I do miss her so." His eyes closed, and he swayed. "Probably wasn't ever immortal, was I? If I'm on my way out, I'd like to see her very much."

Doctors and nurses swarmed the room, pushing Bill into the hallway.

He stumbled to the nearest bathroom and threw up. The blood never did come out of the shirt he was wearing.

* * *

***

* * *

The powers-that-be treated Mr. Morningstar with kid gloves after that night. Medications were adjusted, round-the-clock room checks were ordered, and Bill was made to remove what was left of the mirror altogether.

"But how am I to fix my hair?" Mr. Morningstar asked with concern.

Bill didn't have the heart to point out he hadn't fixed his hair in well over a week. Not that Bill had noticed.

Instead, he said gruffly, "You look fine, Mr. Morningstar."

The detective was there at the earliest possible time for visitors. She stormed toward her former work partner, took one look at his bandaged arms, and hugged his middle as if she were afraid he'd fly away if she didn't weigh him to the ground.

"Don't you _ever_ do something like that again," she demanded.

"I'm sorry," said Mr. Morningstar.

She held on tighter. "Just, no matter what's happened to you, please don't hurt yourself. Good things can still happen, I promise."

Mr. Morningstar said nothing in return.

* * *

***

* * *

Westridge Canyon was a mid-sized mental health facility. It was nicer than some, and worse than others, which meant the well-meaning doctors did all they could to talk patients through their struggles, but still relied on drugs when too many things went wrong at once. It was one of those days where the sedatives had come out in full force.

It started when Pete, the arsonist, stole a package of Oreos and a half-gallon of milk from the kitchen. He hid both in his room to eat when no one was looking. But not even Pete's iron stomach could hold down milk that hadn't been refrigerated for three days. Room 83 was a goddamned war zone. Pete knew it as well as anyone, panicked, and tried to set fire to the staff kitchen—tried, and succeeded, at least for a short time. Another thing to clean, to fix.

Mark Quest was also hoarding food again, and Jessie Brewer wouldn't stop masturbating in the hallways. The final straw was when sweet, old Marianne Hodgson, who hardly ever stopped knitting, randomly decided to throw a basketball in an orderly's face, breaking her nose. Who knew she had it in her?

So the sedatives were brought out for those causing trouble, and order was restored by way of pragmatism.

Some time later, Mr. Morningstar sat in the rec room, a murder mystery in his lap. He dozed between pages, his head falling forward or back, only to rise again any time he'd wake himself with a snore. Bill saw him as he walked through the room and took pity on his bent neck.

"Mr. Morningstar?" he whispered, standing beside the couch.

The man jerked awake, his head snapping in Bill's direction. Bill stumbled back and sucked in a breath. He could have sworn he saw red eyes.

"Wh-why don't you lie down?" he suggested, going to pat a pillow at the opposite end of the couch. "No one will mind."

Mr. Morningstar sighed and complied, moving his bandaged arms with care as he dropped to the pillow. His laceless sneakers stuck out far past the end of the couch. "I'm very tired on these new drugs," he said.

"That's okay," Bill said, and Mr. Morningstar closed his eyes.

The demands of the hospital called. By the time Bill had cleaned up the mess from Pete's fire and washed and replaced all the soiled sheets, several hours had gone by without his realizing it. He wandered through the rec room, hunting for his broom, and was surprised to see Mr. Morningstar hadn't moved at all.

As he passed the couch, the man groaned and said something distinctly foreign. Bill stopped and stared, and Mr. Morningstar murmured a little more. His dark brows knit together restlessly.

Being a child of Los Angeles, Bill had heard all manner of languages and creoles throughout his life. Spanish, of course. Chinese, Tagalog, Korean. Russian, French. Arabic. Hebrew. The list went on. But he'd never heard _this_ language. Something about it sounded very old, almost primitive—and utterly fluent.

More words tumbled from Mr. Morningstar's lips before he let out a long, low moan that had nothing to do with pain.

Bill's eyes widened, and heat rushed up his neck. He ran to find the broom.

* * *

***

* * *

Detective Decker slid a plastic food container across the table.

"Trixie told me to save you a piece," she said softly.

Mr. Morningstar opened the container, revealing chocolate cake. As she handed him a fork and lifted one of her own, a weak smile pulled at his mouth. It was the first in days.

"We miss you."

His smile turned hard and bitter. "How could you miss a delusional man?"

"Do you really think you're that delusional?" she asked, her gaze overly focused on the cake as she speared it with her fork.

"Don't you?" he countered.

They stared at each other.

* * *

***

* * *

" _Lucifer!_ "

From where he was (supposed to be) cleaning a window, Bill turned along with Mr. Morningstar and Detective Decker. Charlotte Richards' high heels clicked across the floor at a menacing pace. She came to a halt beside the table Detective Decker and Mr. Morningstar shared.

"Why did I only hear of your little _stunt_ now?" She held up her hands. "Doesn't matter. We're leaving. Today. Right now. We've got the last piece. Your brother has figured everything out."

"No," Mr. Morningstar said, shaking his head. "I'm not going anywhere with you."

"Don't. Be. Silly. You're coming home with me." Charlotte's hand darted forward, gripping his bicep.

The detective jumped between Mr. Morningstar and his so-called mother. "Back. Off."

"You're cute," Charlotte said with a thin smile. "And very stupid."

"Detective, you should leave," Mr. Morningstar warned. "She's very dangerous."

"Well, so am I," the detective said.

"You don't understand," Mr. Morningstar said, his voice high with worry.

"You just assaulted a man in front of a police officer," the detective said to the lawyer, her feet firmly planted, shoulder-width apart. "In a room full of witnesses." She looked around. "And cameras. Leave or I'll make you."

Charlotte's lip curled. "Fine," she said, releasing her hold on her alleged son. "I'll go. For now."

When the woman was gone, the detective turned to look at her former partner. "Are you okay?" she asked.

"You shouldn't make her angry, Detective."

"I'm not afraid of her. You've seen me take down men twice her size." She smirked. "All else fails, I'm packing heat."

But Mr. Morningstar continued to frown. "She's not all she seems."

"Who do you think she is?" the detective asked.

"I don't know." Mr. Morningstar put his head in his hands and groaned. "I don't know who _I_ am."

The detective rested a hand on his shoulder. "I think you do."

Mr. Morningstar glanced at her curiously. "You think _you_ know who I am."

"You're my partner," she said. "That's all that matters."

Why did her voice shake?

* * *

***

* * *

Something changed in Mr. Morningstar.

The next time Bill saw him, his stubble was neatly shaved close to his skin. His curls were trimmed and schooled into submission. Even his bandages had been removed, revealing clean, unblemished skin. Bill wondered how he'd healed so fast.

His charm returned in full force. Nurses and doctors flocked to him, not out of concern, but because he was so easy to chat to.

But the biggest change of all was in how he held himself. Not like a broken man, but like a man who had power and knew it.

In the rec room, Mr. Morningstar caught Bill staring and grinned at him over his cup of tea.

* * *

***

* * *

"William?"

Bill dropped his Windex. From where he stood in the threshold to his bedroom, Mr. Morningstar smiled slightly and bent to retrieve the spray bottle. Bill took it from him and nestled it in his cart of supplies. "Can't sleep, Mr. Morningstar?"

"'Fraid not."

"Do you want me to find a nurse?"

"No need, but I could use some company."

Bill looked away and swallowed. "There's a lot I've got to do."

"Oh, surely all those tasks will be waiting for you later." Mr. Morningstar nodded his head toward his bedroom.

"I—"

_Don't go in there._

_Don't do it._

_You know better._

"All right. But just for a little while."

The man drew him into the tiny, mirrorless room. The click of the door sounded like a gunshot, like a seal on Bill's fate.

"I'd offer you a drink," Mr. Morningstar chuckled, "but, well, this is a dreadfully dry hospital. I've not been this sober since Cana ran out of wine." He moved to lounge on his rumpled bed, his long legs stretched out before him. He pat the space next to him. "Put your feet up, my good man. They keep you busy."

Bill hesitated, but found himself unwilling to say no. He settled on the edge of the bed, near the other man's feet. "Why did you call me in here?" Bill asked.

But it was obvious, wasn't it?

"I believe this is my last night here." Mr. Morningstar snorted in amusement at Bill's panicked expression. "Oh, do relax. I'm not offing myself. Don't believe I even could now." He quirked a brow. "Anyway, I'm horny as hell."

The blunt honesty was shocking and thrilling, all at once, and Bill struggled to contain a hysterical howl of laughter. "Mr. Morningstar—"

The man grinned. " _Lucifer_ is quite all right. Even if that is the Devil's name."

"Lucifer. Okay. I'm... Even if I did swing that way, _which I don't_ —"

"Of course you don't."

"—you're a patient, and I'm, well, I'm an old man who works here."

"What does your age matter?" Lucifer chuckled. "Time means nothing to me."

"It means something to me," Bill said.

"All the more reason to seize the day, William." They were quiet a moment, before Lucifer said, "That goes for me, as well. I've been trying so very hard to be healthy, but denial isn't healthy, is it?"

"You're asking me? I'm just a janitor."

"Be that as it may, you can help me answer another little question."

"What's that?"

"You see," Lucifer said, "I'm not quite certain which parts of me are real and which aren't. But there's one thing I've not tried yet, that I've missed, actually..." His fingers moved, sliding over Bill's hand. "I've always had a soft spot for fulfilling desires. If I can still do that, well, I'll have my answer."

Bill stopped breathing as a lifetime of unspoken cravings slammed into him. His hand looked old and gnarled beneath Lucifer's. Completely and utterly wrong— _taboo_ , and yet so enticing. So many men's hands Bill had looked at and wanted and never dared touch. And the few that had reached for his, he'd shunned. One man, he'd even punched. A long time ago, back when everyone knew this was a sin, when it was nothing to feel proud about.

Who felt more prideful than the Devil?

But this man _wasn't_ the Devil. Couldn't be. Bill had seen strange things in his life, but he knew this man was just a man.

Wasn't he?

There was no telling what he had been through. Sexual abuse, forced prostitution, trafficking, any trauma like that could make a man say things like this.

"William, look at me."

Bill looked up into dark eyes in the dark room. Had he breathed yet? It didn't feel like it.

"Do you want me, William?"

The truth rose up. "Yeah."

Lucifer edged closer. "Tell me what you desire from me."

Words spilled out of him, a chorus of confessions. Things he'd never told another soul, but had always wanted to.

The Devil knelt on the floor and looked up at him.

* * *

***

* * *

Lucifer Morningstar's room was empty, and Bill was left with that strange, off-kilter sensation he always experienced after facing the unexplainable. It was the feeling that life would never be the same again. There were the times before and after the UFO, before and after the ghosts, before and after his mother's spirit. Now there was the time before the Devil and the time after the Devil.

Because Bill knew Lucifer was the Devil. The real deal.

He didn't mind all that much. How could he? The Devil had set him free.

As Bill pulled his supply cart from the maintenance closet, Heather, the receptionist, called out to him, "Something came for you in the mail today." She waved a rectangular, brown-paper package in one hand.

"That's for _me_?" Bill asked.

Heather shrugged. "Says _William Puckett_ right here."

Bill's heart skipped a beat. He forced himself to walk, not run, to the front desk, where he took the package from Heather. Half-dazed, he wandered out the front door and went to stand beneath the shade of a long-armed oak tree.

He opened the package with care, peeling back each taped edge until he revealed a beige, clothbound hardcover. It was a copy of H.G. Wells' _The Time Machine_ —a very old copy, by the looks of it. With trembling fingers, he touched the woven, burgundy lettering and the outlined body of the winged sphinx that served as the book's cover art. He hadn't read this book since he was a little boy; he knew what he would be doing after his shift.

Gently, he opened the front cover and felt his breath go out of him. It was a first edition— _and signed_. Christ, should he even be touching it?

Something else was wedged in the center of the book, a tri-folded note. He unfolded it and again felt his stomach drop. There were two plane tickets—first class, no less—to Paris, France. Oh, how he'd always wanted to go, to see the moon rise above the city.

The accompanying note was short, but sweet:

_To burn with desire and keep quiet about it is the greatest punishment we can bring on ourselves. Carpe noctem, William. —L.M._

Bill encased the plane tickets in the note once more and closed the book. Holding it to his chest, he smiled.

That night, he lit one candle for the Devil and one candle for the man. It couldn't hurt.

**Author's Note:**

> Lucifer's letter is a quote from [Federico García Lorca](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Federico_Garc%C3%ADa_Lorca).


End file.
